“No‑o,” answered the inspector, slowly and sententiously. “I would rather not bias your mind in any direction by any theory of mine.” (“It would be rather a waste of time to attempt such a thing,” thought Loveday.) “The only additional fact I have to mention is one you would see for yourself so soon as you arrived at the Hall, namely, that Mr. Golding is keeping up with great difficulty—in fact, is on the verge of a breakdown. He has not had half an hour’s sleep since his daughter left home—a serious thing that for a man at his age.”
Loveday was favourably impressed with Lord Guilleroy. He gave her the idea of being a man of strong commonsense and great energy. His conversation was marked by a certain reserve. Although, however, he evidently declined to wear his heart upon his sleeve, it was easy to see, from a few words that escaped him, that if the search for Miss Golding proved fruitless his whole life would be wrecked.
He did not share Inspector Ramsay’s wish not to bias Loveday’s mind by any theory of his own.
“If I had a theory you should have it in a minute,” he said, as he whipped up his horse and drove rapidly along the country road; “but I confess at the present moment my mind is a perfect blank on the matter. I have had a dozen theories, and have been compelled, one by one, to let them all go. I have suspected every one in turn, Cleeve, her own father (God forgive me!), her intended stepmother, the very servants in the house, and, one by one, circumstances have seemed to exonerate them all. It’s bewildering—it’s maddening! And most maddening of all it is to have to sit here with idle hands, when I would scour the earth from end to end to find her!”
The country around Langford Hall, like most of the hunting districts in Leicestershire, was as flat as if a gigantic stream-roller had passed over it. The Hall itself was a somewhat imposing Gothic structure, of rough grey stone. Very grey and drear it showed in the autumn landscape as Loveday drove in through the park gates and caught her first glimpse of it between the all but leafless elms that flanked the drive. The equinoctial gales had set in early this year, and heavy rains had helped forward their work of wreckage and destruction. The green sward of the park was near akin to a swamp; and the trout stream that flowed across it at an angle showed swollen to its very banks. The sky was leaden with gathering masses of clouds; a flight of rooks, wheeling low and flapping their black wings, with their mournful cawing, completed the dreariness of the scene.
“A companion picture, this,” Loveday thought, “to the desolation that must reign within the house with the fate of its only daughter unknown—unguessed at even.”
As she alighted at the hall door, a magnificent Newfoundland dog came bounding forth. Lord Guilleroy caressed it heartily.
“It was her dog,” he explained. “We have tried in vain to make him track down his mistress—these dogs haven’t the scent of hounds.”
He excused himself from entering the house with Loveday.
“It’s like a vault—a catacomb; I can’t stand it,” he said. “No, I’ll take back my horse;” this was said to the man who stood waiting. “Tell Mr. Golding he’ll see me round in the morning without fail.”
Loveday was shown into the library, where Mr. Golding was waiting to receive her. In the circumstances no disguise as to her name and profession had been deemed necessary, and she was announced simply as Miss Brooke from Lynch Court.
Mr. Golding greeted her warmly. One glance at him convinced her that Inspector Ramsay had given no exaggerated account of the bereaved father. His face was wan and haggard; his head was bowed; his voice sounded strained and weak. He seemed incapable of speaking on any save the one topic that filled his thoughts.
“We pin our faith on you, Miss Brooke,” he said; “you are our last hope. Now, tell me you do not despair of being able to end this awful suspense one way or another. A day or two more of it will put me into my coffin!”
“Miss Brooke will perhaps like to have some tea, and to rest a little, after her long journey before she begins to talk?” said a lady, at that moment entering the room and advancing towards her. Loveday could only conjecture that this was Mrs. Greenhow, for Mr. Golding was too preoccupied to make any attempt to an introduction.
Mrs. Greenhow was a small, slight woman, with fluffy hair and green-grey eyes. Her voice suggested a purr; her eyes, a scratch.
“Cat-tribe!” thought Loveday; “the velvet paw and the hidden claw—the exact antithesis, I should say, to one of Miss Golding’s temperament.”
Mr. Golding went back to the one subject he had at heart.
“You have had my daughter’s photograph given to you, I’ve no doubt,” he said; “but this I consider a far better likeness.” Here he pointed to a portrait in pastels that hung above his writing-table. It was that of a large-eyed, handsome girl of eighteen, with a remarkably sweet expression about the mouth.
Mrs. Greenhow again interposed. “I think, if you don’t mind my saying so,” she said, “you would slightly mislead Miss Brooke if you led her to think that that was a perfect likeness of dear René. Much as I love the dear girl,” here she turned to Loveday, “I’m bound to admit that one seldom or never saw her wearing such a sweet expression of countenance.”
Mr. Golding frowned, and sharply changed the subject.
“Tell me, Miss Brooke,” he said, “what was your first impression when the facts of the case were submitted to you? I have been told that first impressions with you are generally infallible.”
Loveday parried the question.
“I am not at present sure that I am in possession of all the facts,” she answered. “There are
